Sarah: "Man, I am about to act so awkward. I will clomp around with a huge goofy overbite grin and search my complex system of suitcases for a magnet with which to affix this quiz to the refrigerator in our kitchenette, all the while talking about parents and parenting as though they are a British TV show and I am only familiar with the failed American version that was cancelled after three episodes. It will unexpectedly be the most depressing and affecting moment in the episode, because nobody ever wanted to be a better parent than Sarah Linden, or had less to work with."
So that happens, and I got a little sniffly about it, because there's a way in which Sarah's whole thing is like, she has this excess of love to give, because she's been storing it up since she was just a little thing, and now she has people to give it to, but that's the part she doesn't know how to do. Like, this nuclear amount of love on one side of the wall, and other people on the other side of the wall, and no idea how to cross it. And so when she gets to dork out, it's fake by being real, because real seems fake to her, which makes it too real to actually look at.
I hate karaoke because watching a person sing is like watching them take off their skin and put it back on, inside-out, and then everybody pretends that didn't just happen. That you're not seeing the most violent awkward truth about a person when that happens.
But already on the fridge, in the middle of this -- with even Jack getting in on it, doing the whole ugh mommmmmm role he's supposed to play in this little routine -- there's that spooky fingerpaint picture of the dead trees by the lake that I don't remember from any time before lately, but I'm guessing it's just because I'm not that observant and that in fact this painting has been a thing for awhile. Anyway, it's stuck to the fridge. And she didn't put it there, and Jack didn't put it there, and that means even this motel is not homeless enough anymore to be safe.
UPPER SADNESS, WA
Darren's on TV, talking about adversity, when Mitch wakes up. Alone, of course. Wallet empty. Secret Box emptied out on the floor. She cries, I thought she might actually barf this time, but then for no other reason than plot parallels, she randomly pulls it together and picks up this letter she wrote when she was a teenager, that makes her start crying again: The letter she wrote to Rosie's father, a David Rainer, when she found out she was pregnant.